


This Is Football

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jan Vertongen finds himself in the odd position of comforting Emmanuel Adebayor- and he's never resented his manager more. </p><p>For the footie fest. I tried for angsty but... yeah, this happened. The songs/chants are made up, as well as the name of the podcast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Football

_FA Cup semi final 2015 ; Sheffield Blades 0 - 1 Tottenham Hotspur. Sixty two minutes in._

Jan Vertonghen had gotten to _know_ noise. 

Ever since joining Spurs, tugging on the Lily white, and playing in English stadia for the past two seasons, he now _knew_ the nuance of noise. Joyous noise, the chants from the Spurs’ travelling contingent, rocking to: _When The Spurs come marching in/ we do it with a three-point win/ Oh COYS to be a part of that number/ when the Spurs come marching in/ COYS_. Three thousand strong, their voices raised and pushing back against the Blades’ home crowd. The power of sound that hauled you up, pushed your weary legs, filling you up with the supporters' will when you had nothing in the tank. The songs that the Spurs had for every player who pulled on the white of home, the black of away or the yellow of the third kit. 

No joyous noise for Emmanuel Adebayor, though, just the angry hiss and buzz of disapproval every time he touched the ball. Every time he disappeared into the game, more ghost than presence on the field. 

From the corner of his eye, Jan saw their manager as he stood on the sidelines, eyes creased in concentration, shoulders hunched, hands tucked in the pockets of his oversized parka. Bobby Soldado stood beside him, quickly tucking his lily white shirt into the elastic waistband of his navy blue shorts, eyes on the field, shifting from foot to foot like a keyed up racehorse. The official raised the illuminated board on the sidelines, swapping number 10 for 9. 

Ade looked to the side of the field, as the voice over the loudspeaker boomed out the numbers and the names. For a brief second, when the corners of his mouth tightened, Jan wondered if he’d be at the scene of another mutiny. Only for Ade to tug off his captain’s band from his arm, and with both hands, dragging it from Jan’s wrist to elbow. Normally it would have been Hugo with the honour - but Hugo wasn’t the goalie for the cup matches, Michel was- and Michel had enough to be going on with. 

“Don’t lose this match, _hein_? Or else it will be another thing on our heads.”

Even with the noise, now a lull, the aggregate score an abstract calculation in Jan’s mind, he grabbed at Ade’s shoulder and gave him a tired smile. “I think we’ll manage. We’re Spurs.”

Ade took his time as he ambled off the pitch, absorbing the boos and hisses from the away stand, before he raised his hands, palms facing Bobby, who slapped his palms against Ade’s and jogged on the pitch. Bobby, as out of form as Ade was, keyed up and nervy, made his way into the centre of the field. The referee, clad in black, and satisfied with the substitution, raised his whistle to his mouth and blew- the game now back on.

***

“Congratulations on the win yesterday,” Hugo greeted Jan the next day as they came into training at Enfield. Since Jan was still technically captain until the next day on the training pitch (Poch’s orders- once you had the band, you had to take responsibility beyond the time on the pitch) Jan showed up twenty minutes early. He and Hugo were in the locker rooms, taking off their civilian clothing, tucking it away in their lockers and putting on their training kit. Under armoured up from underwear to outerwear, their football boots by Nike.

“We hung in there, and Christian saved us with a late goal.”

“And no clean sheet,” Hugo groused, his eyes dark and his manner intense. It was a running joke in the Spurs locker room, how Lloris called on the errant defenders for clean sheets, and Jan being one of the back three always got scolded for it. 

“You might get that for English Christmas fixtures one year,” Jan grinned, only for Lloris to shake his head and tsk under his breath with disapproval, before zipping up his windproof. 

“I will see you on the field, yes?” Hugo leaned over and grabbed his lanyard from the bench. “I want to speak with Michel about last night.”

Jan looked up from his seated position on the low-slung bench, his fingers stilled around his shoelaces. 

“He’s still shaky,” Jan admitted to a sober-faced Hugo, who leaned against the locker, his arms folded across his chest. After their loss to Leicester to the FA Cup, and Michel’s contribution towards it- no, there was enough blame to share- hello Spurs’ tissue-thin defence. Also, not everyone could be Hugo Lloris, French no 1 and one of the best goalkeepers in the world. “The media coverage doesn’t help.”

“Pochettino is still giving him chances, so he shouldn’t care,” Hugo snapped, his manner as imperious as he was on the field. “I will speak to him and make sure that he understands this.” With an empathetic nod, Hugo departed.

***

_August 2014_

Training days. 

Before Mauricio Pochettino came to Spurs, they were more routine than endurance. 

When Pochettino arrived, he put them on trial every single day. 

He had judged them all, and found everyone wanting. You’d be broken by the end of the afternoon sessions, your bum on the bench, staring blindly at your locker, muscles trembling from sheer exhaustion, twenty minutes before you could even think about moving. 

Jan knew players who’d stumble into the showers from morning training, and sob from the exhaustion, once they caught their breath through the shards of pain in your sides from stitches. On top of that, Pochettino made it a requirement that you had to come to afternoon training, to drag yourself through the same torture, with tactics for the next game woven in. Then on _top of that_ \- if you didn’t perform in training- you couldn’t play. 

A few players muttered, and Jan well - he half admired the fact that they had the strength after training to even _think_ about pushback. The regime Poch had them on, you needed two extra lungs and an extra heart to make it work. He drove you on, observing your form as you did short bursts, knees high. Sprints and touches on the ball. He’d drive you to the brink, but with his assistants, skilfully skirt the pitfall of injury. 

“You must be aggressive with the ball, yes?” Pochettino said in good, strongly accented English. “Football is the future, you are running to your history, so you must always rush forward to meet it.”

Rush forward, they did. Andros, Danny and Harry; the English lads took to the training with ease, almost gleeful, to show what they could do. They were a physical lot, the English players, who accepted the physicality of the league. Christian, the Dane, with the equanimity he had towards everything that came his way, smiled, adjusted, and made it work. 

Pochettino demanded even more in the games they played, as they tried to work through his methods. 

“Press, you have to push into your opponent's third, while keeping your defence.”

After going three down to Liverpool, the mutters grew into straight revolt.

***

_six months ago, August, 2014_

“It is not working!” Younés hissed as they tramped into the showers. Liverpool had been high energy, what with Sturridge and a Spanish lad named Moreno blasting the flank and leaving them flat-footed.

“It’s a new system,” Hugo replied in English, conscious of the rest of the lads milling around in stages of undress. Harry Kane - before he became _Harry Kane_ \- had been a sub then, hanging around the locker rooms and showers even when he didn’t need to, because he got on with everyone. 

“We were better under Sherwood,” Ade groused, holding the ends of the towel that was slung across his bare shoulders. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Hugo responded, voice tight. “Sherwood isn’t here anymore, and Pochettino is. We work with it, give it time, it’s only -”

“So we can stare at relegation? He has no plan B,” Younés snapped, the sound of his voice causing the rest of the players to start sticking their heads out of shower cubicles, some with toothbrushes halfway towards their mouths. Their captain was speaking and loudly- his voice had the team leaving their posts, crowding around Younés and Ade, in various stages of undress. “ As if you would still be a part of the club, then, Hugo.”

“Younés, you’re not being fair-”

“Please,” Younés gestured with a sharp motion of his hand, as he rounded up on Christian, “what do you think?”

“We’re making headway in Europa,” Christian answered in that calm way of his, already dressed in his civilian clothes, of jeans and leather jacket, ready to go home. “It’s going to take time to come together, in the league, but-”

“And his training- he has us out there like dogs,” Ade’s voice now acidic with scorn. “We train, and do tactics, only to fall apart in the -- _Premier League_. Europa means nothing, Champions League the one you want, Europa League is _nothing_.”

“Hey, now, that’s not true,” Jan objected, because yes, it seemed that Pochettino had no plan B- and that was worrying. The Europa cup slight though, that was out of line.

“If we win Europa League we have a place in the CL next year, and yeah, okay, we are playing --- not okay right now--” he really wished that he could have had this conversation in French, but Christian and Harry both didn’t speak the language, and they deserved to hear this conversation first hand. “But you know what Pochettino did at Southampton-”

“They came _eighth_!”

“We came sixth,” Harry chimed in, ever helpful. “If you believe it, on paper we _should_ be a better team, and he had Southampton playing good, direct football.”

“You have yet to play in the league, Kane.”

“Oi, enough of that,” Andros Townsend stepped in between Harry and Younés. “That’s bang out of order, just because Harry hasn’t played in PL as yet, doesn’t mean that he's thick. You’re just mad because you’re getting stick in training.”

“Townsend, aren’t you tired of losing?”

“Aren’t you tired of being a wanker?” Andros shot back, just as easy. “ It’s going to take a while for the gaffer’s ways to bed in, I am still trying to get my head around the high press- but already we’re going longer, not bustin’ a lung at the sixtieth minute.”

“Right,” Younés sneered, “when we’re staring at relegation come mid-season, don’t say that we didn’t warn you.”

***

_November, 2014_

_“Form goes, and class is forever, yes, but where did Adebayor’s form go?”_

_”Emmanuel Adebayor has been granted compassionate leave, he’ll be taking a step back from Spurs duties for a while._

_[From the podcast: _The Spurs Cock_ ] “You know what, in light of Adebayor’s family matters? Good luck to him. The question is, what are going to do now for firepower? Harry Kane has shown flashes of class so far, you think he’ll grow into the role now that Ade is away? I hope so, I’m tired of having a clenched bum, and doing things the Spursy way, to tell the truth. Still a Yid - but with a dodgy ticker- or so my doctor tells me, and I’m only twenty-eight. COYS .”_

***

“Jan,” Pochettino greeted as soon as Jan stepped into his office. It had the usual Spurs memorabilia, his desk clear save for the neatly stacked files to the side, and Jan wasn’t surprised when Pochettino reached for a navy coloured file, the Spurs insignia to the top right, with his name embossed on the front.

“Coach,” Jan responded because for all his coach’s relative youth, no one called him by his first name - not even Hugo- and Pochettino and Hugo had a relationship with huge respect. Out of all the players on the team, Hugo was trusted the most, which was understandable, because Hugo had been the steadiest and the best out of all of them. 

“You’re going to be vice-captain when the team needs you to be, is that a problem?”

“I...” Jan was expecting anything but this. Feedback on training, tactics or individual targets to work on. Not this, not after just two seasons with the club. “I - what about Ade?”

Pochettino did that half smirk that made him seem as if he’d heard an odd comment and didn’t know whether to laugh or leave. “He’s your captain, and you support him when you can.”

***

[podcast: _The Spurred Cock_ ]

_“Wait, wait, wait, Tim... hold on. So you remember Emmanuel Adebayor? The one who had to take two months of leave so that he could throw off that juju - he’s back. We’re glad he’s back, and hope the unplayable Adebayor shows up, but guess the welcome home present that Poch gives him? A shot at redemption? A starting XI place with the misfiring Bobby Soldado? If you said either, you’d be right but wrong- he gives Adebayor the captain’s band!”_

_“Mate! Is Poch losing the plot? Remember when Poch explained that he gave the captain’s band to Younés Kaboul because seven months ago the situation was different? Especially with rumours of him and Ade and Lennon revolting in the locker room- and revolting is the word. Now he’s naming Ade as captain?”_

_“Well, if we wanted a smooth ride, we wouldn’t be Spurs, eh? We’d be wearing the scum livery across the way. Me missus keeps expressing concern over me mental health and liver.”_

_”The transfer window is opening up though, Ash, it might be a way for Adebayor to catch a few eyes so to speak, and getting some minutes and focusing on nowt but the football will be good for Adebayor... I hope.”_

_“A shop window you mean? Yeah, that makes sense. But let’s put this to our listeners. What say you out there in cyberspace? Has Poch lost the plot, or is he a wiley Argentine like the best of them? Tweet us your reactions at Spurredcock, or email us at spurredcock@gmail.com and we’ll read out the best responses next time. We’re going to close out with a local grime outfit, and we’ll catch up next time. Until then, COYS.”_

***

_Day after Sheffield match 2015_

_“Don’t lose this match, _hein_? Or else it will be another thing on our heads.”  
_

The remembered comment ringing in his ears, Jan stayed behind in training, grabbing a towel from the locker room, and going on to the far practice field, catching Ade’s eye as he practiced his free kicks, with the three mock-up mannequins in front of the net. Ade had come back from Togo, and his interview to the printed press - “To all those who hate me- I love them too,” showed that he had spirit at least. 

“We won,” Ade said in French, as he stopped in mid-motion, foot resting on a match approved ball, hands on his hips. Like the rest of the players who would have been on the pitch today, he was kitted out in the Spur’s branded workout gear. Navy blue from head to toe, starting with the Spurs beanie over his cornrows, the uniform with yellow cut outs, tying in with the Spurs logo outlined in white, and the multicoloured Nike studs most members of the team wore on his feet. “I guess I should thank you for that?”

“No, no, we’re teammates,” Jan shook his head, as he replied in the language. He balled up and threw the towel he’d been carrying at Ade. “No thanks - it's unnecessary. I’m sorry that the supporters gave you a hard time last night, it was an important match. Especially after our loss to Leicester- and our shaky season. Even though we’ve been playing better in the last six games or so- they still don’t believe us. Not yet, but we’ll show them.”

Ade caught the towel, one hand outstretched, foot lifting slightly off the ground for balance. 

“ _You_ , you mean. I look at the team sheet, and I see the starting XI. Younés is never there, nor is Lennon. Even Bobby gets on, and he's been terrible this season” 

“Poch-”

“It is football, like he says, I know this.” 

Restless now, Ade flicked the ball from the ground onto his instep, then flicked from instep to knee, as fluid as water, as easy as breathing, and he started doing ‘keep ups’ bouncing the ball from knee to knee. One more knees up and the ball shot up into the air, spinning as it went higher and higher, giving Ade enough space to shift and position as it came down in a curve, and with a jump; an uncurling of power and muscle, as he left the ground, angling his head as it connected with the ball, it deflected over the cutout mannequins, arcing into the back of the net, the towel still clutched in his fist. 

The skill-set assured, showing Ade’s class, and why he was near unplayable on his day. 

“In football, you either have the confidence of the manager or not."

“You’re a good player, you know this, it’s just -”

“I don’t have the confidence of the manager.”

That was the only thing that mattered at the end of it and both of them knew it. 

"You went away," Jan started, "I know you had to go- but Ade. You know what was going to happen, we couldn't wait on you."

In the two months Ade had gone away, Kane and Erikson thrived in his absence and pushed him to the periphery. Football, like Pochettino always said, was a sport that looked forward, and by removing himself from the scene, unintentionally or otherwise, his space on the team had disappeared, he’d been left behind. 

“There will be other teams,” Jan repeated, knowing how hollow the words sounded, resenting the position their manager had put him in, _Support your captain_ Pochettino directed, and Jan didn’t know how. “Football is -- you know how football is, it’s--” Jan raised his hands, palms facing up and outward, the expression encapsulating how precarious, and disloyal the sport could be, be it under new managers, or shifting goals of man management and just... everything. “It’s--- football.”

Ade nodded, the white of the towel draped around his shoulders. “That it is,” he said, as he started to walk towards Jan. Jan didn’t move, stayed his ground, only for Ade’s shoulder to brush against his, a jostle hard enough to make Jan rock on his feet. 

“One day, he’ll leave,” Ade’s voice a sibilant hiss in his ear. “It’s Spurs, and Levy; the managers always leave, and Poch is no exception. When a new manager comes, it will happen to you too. Like Pochettino says, _it’s football_.” With that short, sharp remark, he stalked away, leaving Jan on the field all alone. They had a few hours before the afternoon training session, before Harry and Christian and Andros and the rest rolled in. 

Jan walked over to the ball, flicked it up, and caught it in his hands. He looked around the training field, and with one last sigh, turned on his heel and walked towards the dressing room. Until Pochettino left, his exhaustive training methods were here to stay, and he’d do best to get ready for the second one of the day. 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of points about this piece of fiction: 
> 
> It's alleged that Emmanuel Adebayor, Younés Kaboul and Aaron Lennon were having a revolt in the Spurs' locker room because they chafed at Pochettino's methods. In addition, with the Spurs' dodgy form under Mauricio Pochettino for the first six months (as he swapped and changed and the players were trying to get used to his philosophy) it might have exposed fissures in the side. To be fair to the players, it's only recently that Poch has worked out a plan B (with players like Erikson and Kane, it's helped Pochettino to come up with a plan B - like he never had with Southampton, most online pundits would say, but that's beyond the remit of this fiction). The workouts Pochettino does with his players are legend. They hate them, but find them effective.
> 
> Adebayor took two months off for compassionate leave, and because of that, Pochettino was forced to throw Harry Kane into the starting XI sooner than he'd have liked (Kane was being 'managed' he played the Europa cups, but didn't start getting full tilt into the PL until November, I want to say), and while Kane has thrived, Adebayor (who can be inconsistent, and that's being kind) has found himself on the sidelines. Lennon is now in Everton on loan, and Kaboul well... is Kaboul. 
> 
> The title refers to Pochettino's favourite saying, "This is football" which is a shorthand for good, bad, lucky or unlucky in his world. 
> 
> Due to Tottenham Spurs first supporters being mainly Jewish, they refer to themselves as Yids, and COYS is the acronym for Come On You Spurs. 
> 
>  
> 
> Good luck getting top four, Spurs.


End file.
